


AKA Kiss Me I'm Irish.

by GiannaQueenofBelgium



Category: Daredevil (TV), Jessica Jones (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Depression, F/M, Fun, Violence, diction - Freeform, long story, netflix, powers, prose, recovering from abuse, super powers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 01:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10798866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiannaQueenofBelgium/pseuds/GiannaQueenofBelgium
Summary: Jessica Jones is hired to track down the daughter of a long dead Irish Mob boss. As she digs deeper into the life of Stephanie Boyle she learns that there are some secrets that don't want to be unearthed. And that some simply shouldn't be.The line between hero and villain is thin and sour. Sometimes you can be both.Original Female Character/DaredevilTakes place after Season one of Jessica Jones and Daredevil.





	1. Preface

**PREFACE**

Everyone always tries to drag the details of my meeting with Captain America out of me. The most they ever get is that he bought me a root beer at a dive bar in Brooklyn and was the perfect gentleman. My story always stays the same, simple and sweet, mostly seasoned with details about his chiseled face and amazing physique. They girls eat that up, it distracts them enough not to ask more questions.

 

I never repeat his exact words. But I'll never forget them.

 

 

"The line of work that we're in," He said, holding uncomfortable eye contact "it'll kill us all in the end. And you're a fool to get involved."

 

"Everybody dies, sooner or later," I rolled a cold, greasy fry in-between my fingers.

 

"It carves out your insides first, kid. So by the time you're so riddled with holes its like there's nothing but red floss holding you together, there won't be anything to leak out from between the carnage. No one to say goodbye to. Just an empty shell leaving an empty life behind."

 

"You can't know that."

 

"I've lived it." He stood up from the table, threw down a couple bills for the waitress and left me feeling more worthless than when I entered. Rodgers took a few steps and then stopped, didn't even have the dignity to turn around. "Get lost, this city doesn't need another dead body to scrape off the sidewalk."

 

 

It's simply not appropriate to tell people that Captain-freaking-America can be as much of a realistic jerk as the rest of us. They love to think his heart is as golden as his hair. All his puppy eyed fans, all his love sick groupies, looked up to him like he was Jesus born again. So it's best not to tell them that his heart is torn up and hurting so bad he basically told a nineteen year old to get screwed.

 

So I keep it short. Tell them he was handsome, that he even flirted with me a little just to be polite. That, yes, his eyes are as blue in person as they are on TV. They ooh and awe and are happy to be the acquaintance of someone who met their larger than life idol. Makes them feel special. And I allow the facade to stand.

 

I keep those words to myself. Remember them. So that when I'm bleeding out on the pavement, waiting for someone to find my mangled corpse, I'll have only myself to blame. It takes a real idiot to not listen to Captain America's advice.

 


	2. PART ONE: CHAPTER ONE

**PART ONE: CHAPTER ONE**

Rodger Mosley lives in an apartment that has smelled of piss for three decades. He works in a warehouse that has smelled of fish for five decades. And every night he eats a crummy burger and waits on a slimy street corner selling dope to criminals who smell like both fish and piss.

 

In the walls of his personal hell-hole are bundles of cash, rolled tight and secured with a rubber band, then wrapped in plastic and stored in rat-proof metal containers. Someday he's moving to Hawaii. Where he'll live in a bungalow surrounded by plants always in bloom, where the only foreign smell is his cigarette ash drifting away into the wind.

 

But that's the future. The very real, very close future that he's been saving, striving, and bleeding for. He can almost taste it. The salt spray off the ocean, the delicious fruit cocktails waiting for him, and the red lips of some local girl who will fall in love the first time she lays eyes on him.

 

He takes a long drag on his Joe and blows blue smoke into the cool night. She'll be arriving soon. They've been working together so long that she brings her cash already rolled, bound, and plastered in plastic for him. Sometimes that extra mile earns her a little more; when he's feeling generous that is. Tonight is not one of those nights. Her stuff is in his breast pocket, in a little glass vial like you'd see in a doctor's cabinet. It is potent goods, might send someone else into next week, but it's just right for his kid.

 

"Hey Mossy," she says and he pivots to face her. A curt nod is the most greeting she gets. "Ouch, why are you in such a bad mood?"

 

"You got the cash?"

 

"When don't I?" He fishes the vial out of his pocket. the liquid inside is thick and goopy, almost like honey. Instead of gold hues however it is nearly a metallic silver, glinting in the lamplight. They trade and he waits for her to depart.

 

"You're leaving soon. Aren't' you?"

 

"Why do you say that?"

 

"You don't take anything yourself, live in a dung heap, and have been working your rear off for years. Mossy, I know you're not going to stay here any longer than you think is necessary."

 

"What do you want?"

 

"I want to make sure that when you leave my supply doesn't run out."

 

"Someone else can take care of you."

 

"No one but you can make this, you know that, don't play stupid."

 

"Maybe we should both get out when I go."

 

"So you are leaving."

 

"I've always have been," He pauses, takes another drag and finally faces her dead on. It always surprises him, how beautiful she is. Takes his breath away. Tonight she's got her hood pulled down deep across her face, just the bottom of her nose and the lower half of her face illuminated. But even with so little visible she is stunning. Clear skin, straight teeth, perfect makeup when the kid bothers to put some on.

 

"Maybe we should both get out."

 

"You already said that."

 

"It's an option... Starting over."

 

"You know that it isn't. It never will be."

 

"There is a lot of good that you could do, if you just tried for once in your life."

 

"Piss off Mossy, you don't know jack." He smirks. Hit a nerve. Oops. The vial is shoved into her bag. The girl stomps off, her walk wiggly and cute even when she's angry. If she weren't so ticked off the time she'd be adorable, big green eyes and red hair, a happy little sprite. But meanness is at her core and it leaves no room to be cute. He wishes she'd act her age for once, be a sweet girl instead of so darn bitter.

 

"See you next week, I guess." He calls after her.

 

"Guess so."

 

This is the second time that his going away has been brought up in serious light. There'd been a promise last time of having someone else make the silver liquid, but few were talented enough to get it right. Even less cared enough about their product to do it properly. And Rodger Mosley didn't know a single one of them personally. So it was a lie. The only lie he'd told in a very long time that stuck with him. Like a thorn in his foot.

 

The second part of his paradise fantasy is that once he left there wouldn't be anyone to make it. She'd be in her basement, in the throws of withdrawal, howling. Then it would pass. The girl would leave the house, see the sun, feel the heat, and breath in the world with all her senses strong and beautiful.

 

Then she'd change the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got this habit that when I watch one of my favorite shows with my parents or a friend I pause after every episode, get in their face and say: What do yah think will happen? Usually, because of the abruptness, they have nothing to say. Still this is repeated after every episode, for every show, every movie, and it won't stop with my writing.
> 
> So, what do yah think will happen?


	3. PART ONE: CHAPTER TWO

 

**PART ONE: CHAPTER TWO**

Being 24 and working full time at a fast food joint isn't exactly how I planned my life. My case worker recommended a part time job to my guardians at 17 and I simply never left. Started off mopping the floors after closing, cleaning the fryers and the toilets. Well, guess that is still what I do, but now ordering people around is on the resume.

 

In the back is a closet sized room with a desk jammed into it and my chair behind that. On the wall are a few awards some boot licker at corporate sends out to the managers with the best sales. Never met him, don't even know who he is, yet he wrote a glowing paragraph about me like he knows jack. The review was thrown away and the plaque got nailed onto the wall. It's a dump but it's my dump.

 

I sit behind my cramp inducing desk and filter through the ordering paper-work, taking notes on how many pound of ground up crap we need to order for next week. Then take a look through the new schedule, who wants days off, who is pushing their luck on getting fired for taking too many sick days. Six freakin' days a week I'm behind this desk, my brain leaking out of my ears.

 

There's a soft rap at the door. Probably that piss poor excuse of a man Randy wondering if I'd like to get a drink with "the gang" after work.

 

"Come in," I say and keep my head down.

 

"Um, there's a bit of a disturbance at the register. A customer has requested to speak with the manager." Crap. Nine in the morning is when the old people come in for coffee. Right now some old bitty complaining about the creamer being weak is the last thing I'm excited about.

 

"Head back to the fryers," I tell Randy "I've got it."

 

There's a swaying woman standing in front of Betty, the only person that has been working here longer than me. She's got shoulder length black hair and petite features that are contorted into a scowl. By the looks of it she hasn't smiled since 2007. Her tank top is wrinkled and stained, jeans in about the same condition. The smell of her is strong too. It seems a tish early to be hitting the whiskey as hard as she had been.

 

"What seems to be the problem?" I come and stand next to Betty.

 

"This bitc-"

 

"Watch it." I bark and the woman grins at me, swaying a little.

 

"Finally, someone with balls. She won't accept my coupon." She says and slaps a hand down next to a torn, wrinkled scrap of paper on the counter, pushes it in my direction. I pick it up, feels damp, and look it over.

 

"Well, this did expire in January."

 

"Bulls-" she catches herself as Betty glares, narrows her eyes and throws her head back involuntarily. "Fine." The drunk blows air out her nose hard and fast, like a bull. Probably likes to think of herself like one. Strong and tough and ready to shank any idiot stupid enough to cross her path. "I'll take the number seven to go," Betty punches the order into her computer and the cooks get to work.

 

Standing near the entrance of my closet office I keep watch to make sure there are no more problems. Watch her as she, unabashed, shoves a few handfuls of ketchup packets into her leather jacket pockets, followed by some straws. It goes smoothly enough, certainly not a friendly encounter but it didn't end in a fistfight- therefore a success. Back to the mind-numbing paperwork. The prospect of a bit of fisticuffs was nearly a relief. I'm almost disappointed it didn't end that way.

 

Spinning in my chair, knocking both knees against the edge of my desk, I turn and face the wall. Look at the three sad plaques. The wood cracks where I pounded the nails through them.

 

"Seven years," I breath out. Haven't had a raise in two. Not that I've pushed for one, or even care. But isn't that what people want? Raises and for management to actually know them to care about their work? A retirement plan. That's a thing right? Sit down with an accountant, or a lawyer, I don't really know who plans those sorts of things out. And draw up a general idea of what to do when you're sixty and hate life and want to die but have too much money to do that yet, make a plan of how to spend it all.

 

Spin back to face my desk. Almost 10. Time for my "insulin". The drawer to the left holds a little vial and some syringes. Slide it open, place a wrapped needle on the top of my desk, the vial next to it. Rip the plastic off, let it float into the trash, and measure out a dosage.

 

My arm is dotted with scars, little red marks, from doing this twice a day for the last five years. I like to say that it doesn't hurt anymore, when people notice the marks and ask. The needle doesn't, not really, but the glittery, silver liquid sure does. A cold burn in my veins. Followed by a solid five minutes of my brain dipped in murky idiocy. Nothing gets through then, not really. The world becomes cloaked in grey, my skin stops feeling, once or twice at the start I stopped breathing. Woke up gasping for air, my lips blue, head throbbing. As tolerance built the severe reactions lessened, but the fog never has. Hate it. Wish it could be fire, strong and powerful and pumping me full of life. But this is what I need. Cold. Grey.

 

The syringe drops onto the desktop and I slump into my chair. A drop of blood swells on my arm. It feels cold. The fog always seems like it lasts longer than it really does. Timed it once, found out it was only minutes, not the hours I had thought it took to wear down. Not that it ever really leaves,  once it starts to wear thin I take my second shot.

 

After I can twitch my fingers again I put the syringe in a medical bag and go into the bathroom and throw it away in the receptacle. Back in my office I pick at a poppy seed muffin and throw back two antidepressants. Those were not my idea. And no, I don't have a clue how they and the silver crap interact inside of me. Maybe one day they'll freeze my blood solid inside of me. Petrify me in my crappy chair in my terrible office in this god awful little grease hut. Still better than what I deserve. No, the antidepressants were my psychiatrist's idea. She said they'd give me my energy back, help balance me out. So the depression drains me, makes me want to die, the silver stuff sedates me, doesn't allow me to get dangerous, and the pills get me dressed in the morning and help me fill out this friggin paperwork.

 

 

 

In the afternoon I cover for a girl who's baby got sick and didn't have a sitter who wanted to take care of the snot nosed thing. Managed the drive through window, taking orders and handing over bags of junk food to people who treated it like it was crack. At four the day got interesting, that's when the kids come in.

 

They're all high school students, full of vigor and hope, and for some reason they like me. The air of "god why do I have to be here" is replaced with "god why do I have to be here but at least Bobbie looks the other way when I eat fries".

 

I look forward to my time with the sixteen-year-olds. Some of them even have the guts to heckle me, say that I'm barely out of high school myself yet here I am, managing this crap fest. I grin and nod, tell em' that they'll run me out of here in not too long. They like that, being told they have a future. Maybe not a future here, but one where they're the ones in control for once.

 

But my time with them is only an hour, at five I head out the door and am replaced with some dusty grandpa who holes up in the backroom and counts inventory over and over. The kids might just like me because the alternative is worse. Today when five hits it hurts more than normal. The prospect of a whole evening to myself is crushing. Randy didn't mention going out for drinks later in the night to me. I wish he had. Could have at least pretended I had something worth doing when I blew him off.

 

Rarely do I drive to work, as it is less than two miles from my apartment. Today it starts to drizzle as I leave out the back door, pulling my coat collar up. Don't mind too much, for once the cold I feel on my skin is true and real, and not just a farce coursing through my veins.  There are a few shops on the way back home, I've been to them all a hundred times before, and today is no different.

 

The first is a girly-girl boutique where everyone knows me by my first name and remembers my measurements. This is where I get my bras and lacy panties no one but the women who wrap them in tissue paper will ever see. Any rings I bother to wear have been graciously picked out for me with the lie of "I thought of you when this came in!" tagged to it along with a hefty price. Skipping that one I move onto the next, an organic bulk food store. Don't give a crap about organic but the food there is actually decent. Food is one of the very few things I enjoy.

 

Pull the glass door open and notice a fast movement behind me. The streets are not barren, but not packed either. A few people move swiftly past me, across the way I notice a slip of black hair spilling over a leather jacket slide into an alley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these short chapters. They're sweet and to the point. I get more out too, without my giant fricken rambling page after page sort of chapters I usually write.  
> What do ya'll think of Bobbie so far? Like her? Boring? Prolly boring.


	4. PART ONE: CHAPTER THREE

**PART ONE: CHAPTER THREE**

"Do you remember the big Irish Mob bust back in 05?"

 

"Yeah."

 

"In the firefight, their leader, Colin Boyle got shot in the chest three times, bled out before the paramedics even got to the scene."

 

"What do you want from me? Sympathy, rejoicing?" Jessica sat across from a well dressed man with slicked back hair and measured movements. His handsome face was marred by a thick scar on his left cheekbone. She didn't trust him. But he came here looking for her help. And had cash. It was the bundle of bills he threw onto her desk that made her offer him a chair.

 

"I just want you to listen."

 

"I am."

 

"Boyle had two sons, both put away, life sentences, for murder, dealing, aiding and abetting, no chance at parole." He nodded to a bottle of whiskey she'd forgotten to put away. "Mind?" She didn't. While Jessica stood and fetched two water stained glasses the man continued.

 

"One daughter, Stephanie, put into foster care. I was pretty young when it all happened, brand new to this world. But two years ago the Irish started gaining traction in Hell's Kitchen. Popping up here and there leaving a few bodies, moving a steady but small amount of meth in the inner-city." She poured for them both. Made hers a double.

 

"Sounds like police business so far," Jessica plunked into her chair, it squeaked.

 

"You're right, none of that is anything Alias Investigation needs to worry about. But the thing is that the mob is still broken up about the incident in 05. A few men who did their time and gave that life up have been found with their throats slit." She winced for appearances, best to appear sympathetic.

 

"Deal is that those men were pretty well hidden, few are left who'd remember their faces if they passed on the street. So whoever has been taking out the old gang is from back in the day."

 

"Still waiting for there to be a point to this."

 

"I work for a division of the witness protection program that aids in relocating individuals involved in crimes committed over a decade ago. Leads to a lot of dead ends. We've gotten our hands on a few of Boyle's old men and helped them get to safety but we can't find his daughter, Stephanie. If she's not dead already the girl will be once the mob finds her."

 

"Why would they care? Wasn't she just a kid when it all fell apart?"

 

"Ten, actually. But her testimony put away a lot of critical players. Stephanie may have been just a little girl but she still gave the mob a good jab to the ribs, and they are not quick to forgive. Not even their own kind. Not now at least, with Fisk gone everyone is vying for the position of top dog, and nothing will stand in their way. Not even honor."

 

"So you are paying me to do your job?"

 

"A woman's life is on the line. If my begging at your feet will save her then so be it."

 

"Don't beg, that'll be enough." Jessica took the wad of bills off the desk and shoved them into a drawer, locking it. "Send over everything you have. I'll be in touch."

 

 

 

The whole thing reeked. There was no way a key witness to the mob, especially a ten-year-old, wouldn't already have been taken care of by witness protection. That slime ball was up to something. Jessica pulled his card out of her pocket, Samuel James, and rubbed her thumb over the glossy lettering. It was nicer than her card. Stupid thing to be envious of. Didn't stop her.

 

Her current theory was that he was part of the Irish Mob himself, hoping that she'd do the dirty work of finding the girl for him. Then once Jessica delivered the location of their little snake her throat would be slit within the hour. But without proof of his affiliation, she'd have to catch him in the act and that meant finding the girl. Maybe it wasn't a great plan, unearthing a witness protection program kid, ruining her life. But Jessica wasn't exactly in the caring frame of mind. And anyways, if she could find her maybe the Boyle girl should relocate anyways.

 

Now, a month later, she stalked the girl.

 

If she'd been involved in the mob there wasn't a scrap of evidence to prove it. In the week that Jessica had tailed Stephanie she'd begun to suspect maybe James was an ex-lover trying to find her, teacher her a lesson.

 

Stephanie Boyle had no friends, worked a dead end job, shopped almost every day of the week, and looked happy. "Looked" being the key word. In the shops she smiled and laughed with the saleswomen, ran her fingers over any fabric that they pushed under her nose, and bought nearly as much. She simply seemed like a normal single woman in her 20's. If Jessica had passed her on the street she never would have suspected there was something off. That unnerved her.

 

The only day of the week that she wasn't working at the restaurant Stephanie dressed up and drove into the city, shopping more. Every penny she made must have been spent within the week. Jessica knew most girls liked to shop, but this seemed excessive. Then after hitting up all her favorite stores, Stephanie went out to eat, sitting by herself, sampling a mini portion of many dishes on the menu. It seemed like an alright life. If Jessica was a spender and not a drinker she could see herself living like that. But with significantly fewer pastels.

 

Finally, into week two of stalking, she made contact. Pretended to be drunk and went into the restaurant she worked in. Got a feel for how she was with bothersome people. The perfect manager Stephanie handled it all without batting an eye. Jessica snaked her way up between two buildings and camped out on a cramped fire escape. She flicked through her phone repeatedly, took a little nap, snapped some pictures. This was one of the dullest cases she'd worked. But the PI kept at is,  as she hadn't quite made up her mind as what to do with Samuel James.

 

At five Boyle left the restaurant and walked downtown in the rain. No umbrella, which was surprising as she shopped enough that Stephanie should have owned twenty. Jessica was close, less than a block away, on the opposite side of the street when Steph turned around. Darting quickly into an alley Jones hid behind a dumpster. It was doubtful she'd been spotted. Her target hadn't even had a prick of her presence all week. Not one iota of recognition when she came into the joint that morning. So why was she so spooked?

 

Maybe it was the thought that all those dirty, bloody genes had been passed down to this unassuming little girl, just waiting to explode. Maybe there was more to Samuel's interest in her than just wanting the Boyle girl dead. Jessica squatted in the mud, her boots crushing wet cigarette butts. When ten minutes passed she finally stood up, throwing her shoulders back to get the rain water off her jacket.

 

There, standing at the entrance of the alley, wearing a lime green jacket, wet hair plastered to her face, stood Stephanie Boyle. Stone faced she watched Jessica.

 

"Would you like to fill out our customer satisfaction survey?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jessica is tough to write. Heck, everyone is tough to write. Hope you can suffer through it with me. should be doing Algebra home work. Screw it.
> 
> thoughts on bobbie's last words at the end? i think they're hilarious.


	5. PART TWO: CHAPTER ONE

**PART TWO: CHAPTER ONE**

In an evidence locker long since forgotten there was a box marked "Boyle, 2005". Mostly filled with redacted documents it held a few personal items found at the crime scene. Samuel James, assigned to a part of the witness protection program designated to helping at risk victims find safety, was to review this box. It had some scraps from Colin Boyle's office, personal mementos, and a well worn notebook. Pocket sized, stained with now brown blood, it had been pulled from his body after his head was blown off. A hit list.

 

Samuel chuckled to himself when he opened it, his plastic gloves causing trouble as he attempted to turn the pages. It was written like a grocery list, little check marks and all. Colin has surprisingly appealing hand writing, which made it easier to scan through the disgusting material. It was mostly initials, codes, and those nasty, crisp little check marks.

 

The police had looked through this notebook a thousand times before. It was nothing new to them, so with his permission slip from higher ups James was allowed to flip through the dog eared pages. This little thing tied the Irish Mob to nearly a seventy hits from 2000-2005. Fifty of which had gone unsolved until it had been found. It also proved that Colin had trained his two boys, Sean and Aaron, to take up the family business wholeheartedly. His own sons became his personal hit men. Revolting. Especially when it was discovered Sean had his first kill at thirteen. Aaron, fourteen.

 

However, as Samuel's interest in the list turned into obsession he found a flaw in the dates. On February 17th, 2004, Sean had been held overnight for indecent exposure and was bailed out in the morning. For sixteen hours he sat in the local jail, yelling obscenities at the guards. But in Colin's little book it said 04, Feb 17th, 9:50  
PM, WR, SB. The police note translated to: February 17th, 2004, 9:50 PM, Webber Roost, executed by Sean Boyle.

 

Samuel though he was insane at first, there wasn't anyone  else involved in the hits with those initials, SB. Then it hit him hard and he ran to the bathroom, threw up in the toilet, bile and tomato soup. Looked like sticky blood as he flushed.

 

Stephanie Boyle. SB.

 

Nine years old. Killed a man. Shot in the head, bullet cleared the other side of his skull and imbedded itself in the plaster behind his bed. His wife found him in the morning after working the graveyard shift. Screamed so loud the neighbors came running, found her passed out on the floor, Webber's brains all over their sheets.

 

Nine years old. Already a killer like her old man.

 

Samuel decided to get reinforcements when every lead he got turned into a dead end. The files on her had been burned, and her disappearance hadn't been an accident. Someone literally named "Jane Doe" had gotten hold of her, put her in child services, changed her name, and then fell off the surface of the earth. There were people who didn't want Stephanie to be found. People that wanted to protect that little murderer. It made him sick. So he went to the bank, withdrew a couple hundred, and threw it on the desk of a Private Eye he'd heard rumors about. Who got results. Who broke bones when it was necessary.

 

Then he got back to work, found a few old lackeys from back in the day, and sent them to boring towns in Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Kentucky. Far away. Dusty towns where nothing ever happened and nothing ever would. Where they'd be safe. Safe from Stephanie.

 

That's what he honestly believed, that  she was behind those slit throats. Who else could it be? The Boyle girl was back, coming to shed blood and reclaim her kingdom. The Irish were gaining traction too so it was the perfect time to reenter.

 

He wasn't going to let Stephanie Boyle get away with another murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oooh part two how exciting!  
> Thought: Is samuel's drive weak or what? couldn't think of anything better. Oh well. Anyone out there like this guy? In my head he's kinda hot, in a weirdly tall and little bit buff office worker kind of way. How do you picture him?

**Author's Note:**

> So I finally started watching the Marvel Netflix stuff this is what I have to show for it. Love to hear from the readers.


End file.
